


dried flowers

by Wallissa



Series: Ineffable Week [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Making Out, Neck Kissing, Seduction, Short & Sweet, seductive french poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: On a honey-warm summer afternoon, Aziraphale has to realise that although he himself can’t go a century without influencing the art world in some way, the habit does by no means extend to Crowley. In a warm backroom, surrounded by old books, Crowley sips mint tea and listens to Aziraphale recite alluring french poetry while the scent of dried flowers sweetens the air.Ineffable Week, Monday: featuring a bookor a plant





	dried flowers

The door closes behind him, causing the bell attached to it to chime. Immediately, the scent of sun-drenched wood and warm paper fills his nose.

“I’m sorry,” comes a voice from the depths of the shop, “I’m afraid we’re closed.”

“I know. It’s me,” he calls and turns around again to flip the sign at the door to CLOSED. When he taps it with his fingertip, the lock clicks.

Just as he straightens again, Aziraphale rounds the corner, “Crowley! There you are. How nice to see you.”

Despite the heat that’s making the streets sweat and suck on the soles of any decent pair of boots, he’s wearing his usual waistcoat and bowtie and doesn’t even _pretend_ to be warm. Crowley, who’s wearing a dark linen shirt that billows with every breath of air, shows the contours of his body and which is, to top it all off, unbuttoned about halfway, suddenly feels a little underdressed. At least he’s not wearing ripped jeans.

“Yes, you too. You look hot.” The second he says it, he wants to slither under the next bookshelf and hide for a few days, but Aziraphale smiles like someone who doesn’t know that they’ve been complimented by a Freudian Slip. 

Instead, he puts a hand on Crowley’s elbow, surprisingly cool through the fabric. “Yes, it’s quite warm out, isn’t it? Come, we can have some refreshments while I show you the book.”

Stepping into the backroom feels like stepping into amber. It’s warm, but not intolerably so. The air is tinted with golden light and on the desk by the sofa, a vase with dried flowers is half-hidden behind a stack of books. The subtle-sweet scent of roses filters through the air.

Crowley takes a seat on the sofa, its quilt saturated with sunlight and warm dust. He squints at the flowers, trying to make out the details to see whether they really look familiar, whether they’re the ones he– “Here you go, dearest.”

Interrupted before he can blush, Crowley takes the tea glass Aziraphale offers him on a tray. It’s warm, the steam curling up and adding another layer of fragrance to the room. It fogs up Crowley’s sunglasses and he takes them off, placing them on the stack of books the flowers hide behind. As he tips the glass to take a sip, peppermint leaves stick to the rim. Moroccan Mint tea, a drop of honey. Crowley can feel the sweetened warmth seep through him and he hums. “You know, I’ve heard that with warm weather, it’s actually more beneficial to drink room temperature or warm drinks.” He slurps his tea.

“Oh?” Aziraphale looks up from his own tea glass. “I just thought you might dislike the cold. But that’s good to know.” A smile sweet as honey.

So Crowley blushes after all. He sips his tea, looking down at the sofa cushions to hide his burning cheeks. Under his fingertip, the embroidery feels coarse and familiar.

The sofa dips a little as Aziraphale sits down besides him, close enough for their knees to brush. “Now, let’s see.”

It’s a book, as promised.  
Truth be told, Crowley had expected something dramatic when Aziraphale had called him up. Maybe something extraordinarily old, loose pieces of papyrus, singed at the edges by the fire the romans had so carelessly unleashed in Alexandria all those years ago. Or something hidden, bound in suspicious leather and written in a mysterious script.

The book Aziraphale hands him, however, looks perfectly ordinary. Bound in faded beige linen, it seems to be just like any other old book.

“That’s– pretty,” Crowley says after a moment, unsure of what else to do. After an encouraging nod from Aziraphale, he flips it open to read the title page.

“Oh. It’s in French. Nice.” Thoroughly confused, Crowley looks up at Aziraphale. “Well?”

“Well?” Aziraphale repeats, his smile bright. “It’s Baudelaire, _The Flowers of Evil._ I thought you might want to see it again. This edition – “ he gently takes it from Crowley, who’s too busy trying to understand what Aziraphale is getting at to flip through the pages – “It belonged to an Englishman, see? He translated parts of it. He also did a bit of doodling. Very pretty. Too bad he never put his name in, it might’ve been Beardsley.”

Ok. Crowley likes Beardsley. Maybe this is what this is about.

“I just thought you might enjoy rereading it after all this time.” Aziraphale hands him the book again. His smile is so sweet that Crowley almost just takes the thing without questioning this whole exchange. _Almost._

“Angel, what are you talking about? You know I don’t read.”

Aziraphale’s smile melts into a little frown. A terrible sight, really, and Crowley half-considers taking it all back. “But it’s Baudelaire. Fleurs du Mal.”

“I haven’t been to France since the 18th century.”

For a moment, Aziraphale just looks at him. Then, he glances at the book. Squints, frowns. Finally, a blush blooms on his face, a rosy kiss on his cheeks that makes Crowley feel weak in the knees.

“That’s on me, then.” He gets up and when he leans in to take the book from Crowley, he’s smiling brightly. “I must’ve mixed something up. Terribly sorry I called you in for nothing. And in this heat, no less.”

Far too quick of a response. Instinctively, Crowley tightens his grip on the book and leans out of reach. “No, Angel, wait. Why did you think I knew the book?”

The blush on Aziraphale’s cheeks turns a suspicious shade of pink. “Oh, I just thought–“

Crowley raises a brow, a grin blooming on his face. “Yes, Angel?”

Aziraphale sniffs, looks at the book in Crowley’s hands. “I was just under the impression that you knew him.”

“Him? Who?” Crowley looks at the name printed on linen in faded letters. “Baudelaire?”

There’s another pause. Crowley looks up and finds Aziraphale back on the sofa, sipping his tea in silence. A respectful distance between them. The warm light makes his golden ring glow and he looks like the very personification of innocence. _Suspicious._

“Angel?” Crowley draws out the “A”, definitely teasing now. “What are you hiding?”

This method – accusing Aziraphale of something he is currently doing – usually works like a charm. Aziraphale makes a little face and puts his glass down.

“Well, if you must know – I assumed you knew him and, more importantly, he knew you, because of his poetry. I thought you were-“ He looks at the book, searching for words. “Responsible. But.” He uses Crowley’s bafflement to pick the book out of his hands – “I was wrong, apparently. Really, darling, I’m sorry I called you over for nothing. May I at least offer some more tea?”

“Well, I’m not going to say no to tea, am I? But could you tell me what exactly reminded you of me?” The scent of peppermint seeps through the room and Crowley takes another sip of peppermint amber as he waits.

Aziraphale huffs. “Love, this is terribly embarrassing.”

“I won’t laugh. Come on, Angel, tell me?” He tilts his head to bat his lashes at Aziraphale, smiling his most charming smile. It’s a not the most subtle of temptations, but Aziraphale is terribly easy of tempt.

“Oh, fine.” With a sigh, Aziraphale picks up the book again. His fingertips trace the slightly dented upper left corner. “I happened to read something of his the other day and the similarities were so–” He shrugs helplessly. “It just reminded me of you, I suppose.”

Crowley frowns a little. “So you assumed I’d been to France and met him? Sounds like one hell of a poem, Angel. Read it to me?”

It’s a bit of a dirty trick, Aziraphale can’t resist reading out loud. But Crowley loves listening, so how dirty is the trick really?

“Fine. Here, let me.” Aziraphale gently pages through the book. In order to look over his shoulder, Crowley has to slither closer, leaning over his shoulder. The pages are yellowed with age and the ink the previous owner used has faded into a reddish brown.

The drawings truly have Beardsley character, Crowley thinks as Aziraphale turns page after page. Faunish creatures peeking at them with mischievous grins, grotesque and decadent. Fantastic flowers blooming in oceans of hair, nonchalant or devious women dripping in pearls and ornamental fabrics. Some men, poets, agonised, hidden behind printed words here and there. Some very graphic details that Aziraphale doesn’t linger on.

Finally, he stops at a page with a woman melting out of ink like a half-remembered opium dream. She’s barely more than a shoulder blade, the arch of a foot, the dark shimmer of an eye.

Aziraphale clears his throat and takes another sip of tea. Crowley puts his arm on the backrest around Aziraphale, resting his chin on his shoulder.

“The Demon is always moving about my side;

He floats about me like an impalpable air–“

Crowley sniffs a little, smiling to himself.

“I swallow him–“

Aziraphale doesn’t quite hesitate, but there’s a flutter in his words. Crowley flicks his eyes to the side, but from this angel he can’t see much. His cheek brushes Aziraphale’s throat.

”–I swallow him, I feel him burn my lungs

And fill them with an eternal, sinful desire.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, a soft exhale. His breath must tickle Aziraphale, who shivers slightly. Through the thin material of his shirt, he can feel Aziraphale’s body, warm and solid. He shifts a little to press closer, feeling the fabric of Aziraphale’s sleeve against his skin, his partly exposed chest.

“Sometimes–”

Crowley’s hand brushes Aziraphale’s knee, the movement causing his collar to slip over his bony shoulder. The warm air brushes over his skin like a caress.

“Sometimes, knowing my deep love for Art, he assumes

The form of a most seductive woman, –“

When Crowely tilts his head a little, his hair brushes Aziraphale’s earlobe and Aziraphale’s breath stutters a little. When he speaks up again, his voice trembles like butterfly wings.

“And with pretexts specious and hypocritical,

Accustoms my lips to infamous philters.”

At last, Crowley’s lips, warmed by the tea, brush against Aziraphale’s pulse. Another trembling sigh and Aziraphale turns to him, the book still in hand.

When Crowley pulls back just enough to meet his eye, the shirt slips a little more, the hem brushing against his nipple. The shock of pleasure is almost electric.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, his voice sweet like rose petals, “you look enchanting.”

Crowley wants to tell him that he’s got it all wrong, that Aziraphale is the one who looks magical in the tea-sweetened air, golden light caressing his hair, kissing his cheeks. Before he can find those words, though, Aziraphale has leaned in to kiss his open mouth. He tastes honey-sweet and familiar, and his hand is warm and soft in Crowley’s hair.

“What’s–“ The word gets swallowed in another kiss and Crowley has to try again. “What’s the rest, then?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale’s thumb finds the curve of Crowley’s jawline while his lips find the corner of his mouth. So soft, so hot, Crowley feels like he’ll dissolve. His voice catches in his throat.

“The poem.” 

At that, Aziraphale looks at his lap, at the book that flipped to another page in the meantime. “Oh, open wounds, filth, blasphemy.”

“What?” Crowley makes a face. “I would hope I don’t remind you of open wounds and filth.”

“No, of course not. The other parts did, though.” Aziraphale brushes a kiss against Crowley’s lower lip.

At the touch, Crowley shivers in delight, but he tilts his head a little to break the almost-kiss, trying to concentrate. It doesn’t help much, because Aziraphale just covers his neck with feathery kisses. His hand finds his waist, linen bunching up, pulled to the side. Heat melts through Crowley, his eyelids flutter. “So –“ his tongue slips, his voice catches on the ‘s’. “So you called me here only to serenade me with French poetry?”

Aziraphale’s mouth in hot on his throat and when Crowley reaches out, the thin material parts further. His nipple brushes the back of Aziraphale’s hand and the shock makes his thighs twitch, part.

“No, Darling–“ Aziraphale’s words are warm on his kiss-wet skin. „I really did think it was you.“

„Me?“ Crowley is a little dazed, a little distracted, but he manages to tilt his head to look him in the eye. 

“Well, yes. If I were a poet, I’d write about nothing else.”

Crowley feels like a piece of rock candy dropped into a cup of hot tea – cracking and dissolving into sweet nothingness. Carefully, he picks up the cloth bound volume of _Les Fleurs du Mal_ and sets it on the stack of books in front of the vase. Then he slides closer, Aziraphale’s hands slipping over his shoulder, his chest, his fingertips tickling over bare skin. Pressed close like this, buttons against linen against skin and the scent of dried flowers whispering through the air, they melt into the golden amber of the afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Have a few notes before you go:
> 
> Firstly - as previously mentioned, this is part of the [ineffable week](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/187584457180/in-september-i-want-to-dedicate-a-whole-week-to), which is simply a little list of prompts I thought because I was feeling inspired :) If you'd like to join in, I'd be absolutely delighted! If you do so & happen to be on tumblr - please tag your posts with #ineffable week, so I(and others) can find them! :) 
> 
> Secondly - the poem Aziraphale reads to Crowley is called "The Destruction" and you can find this translation, the french original and another translation [here](https://fleursdumal.org/poem/177)!  
The last two stanzas go as follows:  
_He leads me thus, far from the sight of God, _  
_Panting and broken with fatigue, into the midst _  
_Of the plains of Ennui, endless and deserted,_
> 
> _And thrusts before my eyes full of bewilderment, _  
_Dirty filthy garments and open, gaping wounds, _  
_And all the bloody instruments of Destruction!_
> 
> I personally find it rather charming! Also I could've used it for the "poetry or song" choice for tomorrow, but I wanted to really draw inspiration form a text there, instead of referencing it. Also the book as an object is kind of important here. Btw - a plant did sneak in: the flowers Crowley bought Aziraphale when he opened his shop in the 19th century (if I'm not mistaken) - he kept them! Because they're sweet and in love!!
> 
> Thirdly - Aubrey Beardsley was a Fin de Siècles illustrator/artist. You might've seen his illustrations for Wilde's Salomé! here's his [here!](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aubrey_Beardsley)
> 
> Also - not to reference a meme and thus date this fic but I like to hint that [Crowley is a snake]. [Crowley is cold blooded and thus adopts the warmth of the tea he drinks or the angel who touches him]. End of meme!
> 
> Lastly - English is not my mother tongue, so if you found any errors a)I'm very very sorry b) please tell me!! :) That would be wonderful, thank you!
> 
> Another thing you could tell me is how you liked the story? It was really fun to write and I hope you enjoyed it as well, although it's not all that long! (I don't think these daily little things will be much longer, since I want to keep them short and sweet and have fun and as little stress as possible writing them..)  
You could tell me your opinion by leaving kudos or even a comment (if you liked it), I'd really appreciate it <3
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/), where you can find a [post](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/post/187609240850/dried-flowers-by-wallissa-ineffable-week) for this fic as well!
> 
> that's a LONG note (as per usual) - thank you again SO much for reading and I hope you have a great day! If you enjoyed it, we might see each other tomorrow! :)


End file.
